


Trouble in Paradise

by xzombiexkittenx



Series: In the Kingdom of the Blind [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time in Mexico (2003)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Rough Sex, Stockholm Syndrome, cold-blooded murder, dub-con bordering on non-con, really bad language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:18:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xzombiexkittenx/pseuds/xzombiexkittenx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There is no blindness but the blindness of the heart” -Tunisian proverb<br/>Sands wants out. The CIA are still hot on their trail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble in Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please check the warnings. The rough sex borders on dub-con, borders on non-con.

“Fuck you, you bean-sucking, goat buggering, fucktard!”

Fideo didn’t bother to look up. The sounds of a pissed off Sands were not unusual enough to warrant attention. 

There was the sound of glass raining down, the smash and tinkling on the ceramic floors and another stream of vitriol from Sands. That wasn’t unusual either. Sands had recently gotten into the bad habit of throwing things when he was pissed off, which was frequently, and the only things that hadn’t been hurled about were his own cane, sunglasses and El’s guitar and case. Everything else was fair game. This time it sounded like a drinking glass. 

He didn’t really understand the logic behind Sands’ actions. Surely throwing things that could then later cut his feet open when he couldn’t see the shards was a bad idea. 

He couldn’t hear El’s reply, low and patient but it was there, without a doubt.

“I don’t fucking need someone to hold my fucking hand every fucking second of every fucking day!”

That was bad. When Sands was pissed enough to stop using creative curses then they had a problem. Fideo sighed and set down his bottle, getting up to seek out Lorenzo. He found the other man lounging against a wall, long legs crossed at the ankle in front of him and arms folded. Incidentally, the wall was the other side of the room that El and Sands were in, all the better to eavesdrop. 

//That’s not polite,// Fideo chided softly. 

Lorenzo shrugged but made a shushing motion, one finger over his lips. He beckoned Fideo closer before replying in a hushed whisper. //Sands wants to go out on his own, El’s saying no.// Fideo could hear El moving about and then the sounds of a scuffle. //It’s about to get ugly.//

“You patronizing bastard,” Sands snarled, and his voice jolted as if he had been shoved up against the wall. “Don’t touch me. Get your fucking hands off me.”

There was a heavy smack of Sands’ cane connecting with something and El bit out a curse between gritted teeth that sounded a lot like, “Madre de Dios,” which implied the something Sands had hit, had been El.

Sands came storming out of the room, mouth in a hard tight line. “And you both can fuck right off.” 

He was past them and out the door, cane gripped in his hand as if it was an affected eccentricity and not something he actually needed. Lorenzo made no move to go after him and Fideo didn’t fancy his chances against Sands when he was armed and in such a pissy mood. Instead, when El didn’t come out hard on Sands’ heels they slunk into the room to see why not.

El was sitting on the floor amongst the wreckage holding his knee with a pained expression on his face. //He gave me a dead leg.// was the furious reason for El’s inaction. //And if you tell me you just let him go…//

Lorenzo shrugged. //Sorry friend, I’m not armed.//

“Christ.” And when El said it, it sounded as if it might actually be a prayer. “Help me up.”

*~*~*~*

“It seems a bit pointless to, as you so aptly put it, ‘get the fuck on and hit the road’, when we don’t know which direction to go in.” Balrow stared down at the roadmap in apparent disgust. 

Robson smirked, looking exceptionally smug. “You’re not the only one with brains in the stupid fucking operation. I put out an APB on that car. Turns out they bought it here, and the dealer was most helpful.”

“You got a hit?”

“I got a hit.” Robson held out the scrap of paper with the details scrawled on it in his illegible hand. “It’s a couple of weeks old, but it’s a start and I’m confidant we’ll get more hits. They won’t be staying in one place, and if they travel, we find them.”

That was why they were partners, Balrow thought as he squinted at Robson’s handwriting. For all that they bickered, they worked well together, each filling in where the other missed. Not really good cop, bad cop, per se, since they were both CIA and not police, but still…it was the concept. 

Mind you, he wouldn’t have been complaining if they had a required writing course for CIA since, no matter how excellent their teamwork, he couldn’t figure out what the hell Robson had written.

*~*~*~*

It was Podunk nowheresville, Mexico, the world. A main street with all the stores down it, and that was about it. 

Every bit of Sands’ CIA training cried out against this routine. Such a place was excellent for hiding out in, like El’s guitar town. However, it was terrible for short stopovers. They stuck out like sore thumbs and anyone wanting to track them…all they had to do was ask around any of the small towns where they had stayed and everyone, anyone there could identify them. The three mariachi and their freak on a leash. Lorenzo fucking his way through the women of the town, Fideo drinking his way though the bars and El. Well, El just had to be El, didn’t he? Sands trailing behind them like a crippled shadow, cane tap-tapping like the bones of Death’s feet.

See, what they needed to do, if they wanted to keep a low profile, was to hit the larger cities. Somewhere with hundreds of mariachi, where everyone minded their own business and no one would be able to tell them from Adam if they were asked. 

Sands hadn’t told El any of it.

Instead he chose to focus on the here and the now because if he thought about the future and how, no matter if they were caught or if they remained free, he would never see again, it would drive him stark raving mad. Not just the little its of unhinged he seemed to be sliding into. The kind of crazy where they put you away and wouldn’t let you out. It was enough to try and survive the here and now because if he thought about the future, he wouldn’t be able to get up and keep going any more.

So instead he was going to fight with El over the freedom he hadn’t wanted to begin with, until he knew it was going to be denied him. And for the few moments that he was able to snatch on this occasion he was going to get himself to the nearest bar and get stinking drunk.

It wouldn’t be hard. There was one main bar on the one main road and he had walked to it with Fideo three times already.

El found Sands in the bar only twenty minutes after he had sat down but well into his fourth shot of tequila and his second beer.

“Get up. You are coming home. Now.”

Sands didn’t lift his head, only took another pull on his beer. “Well lookie here, I walked all the way by myself without tripping over my own feet. Golly gee El, I’m a big boy now, I don’t wear Huggies Pull-ups anymore.”

“You are drunk,” El began.

Sands cut him off with a laugh, half bitterness, half drunken delight. “I know. Isn’t it marvelous?” He did turn his head then, sunglasses reflecting El back at himself. “I don’t have any money, y’ know?”

El sighed. “Yes.” He counted out a few bills and a handful of change onto the bar. //Don’t give this man alcohol.// El said quietly to the bartender.

“I might be drunk, Mr. Bo-Jangles,” Sands said, with the air of one who was stinking drunk but thought they were imparting wisdom, “but I still speak excellent Spanish and I am old enough to drink as much as I damn well like.”

//He is not to be served.// 

The bartender just shrugged and took the money. //If he can pay, he can drink.//

El took hold of Sands by the upper arm and bodily hauled him to his feet. //You listen to me. You stay in the rooms, you go out only in the company of Lori, Fideo or myself and only if I say so. You do not go out alone. You could have walked out into traffic, been mugged, you could have been shot, killed, anything. So never again. I will not lose-// He trailed off, his rapid-fire Spanish slowing and stopping. //Do you understand that Sands?//

Sands gave him the finger. “Like the rest of the fucking bells.” 

He slumped in El’s arms, not bothering to hold up his own weight. El held him up, one arm around his waist, one of Sands’ arms hung over his shoulders. He half dragged, half carried Sands out of the bar, and it wasn’t until they were turning down the back road to get to their motel that Sands spoke up again.

“You know, I can take care of myself. Not like her.”

“Like who?”

“I’m not Carolina.” Sands was not a stupid man. He knew what he was saying was beyond stupid and verging on the suicidal but he was drunk and he didn’t care. “Don’t compare me to your dead bitch.”

El hit him then, one solid sucker-punch to the gut. Sands dropped like a stone. For moment they stayed like that. El’s fist clenched, trembling and Sands wheezing, gasping for air, crumpled pathetically on the ground. 

“You don’t speak of her,” El’s voice was too calm, too quiet.

Sands struggled to his feet, leaning against the nearest wall, feeling stucco against his back even through his clothing. Between tightly gritted teeth and wheezing breaths he managed to get out, “I’m not some stupid bint who needs taking care of, protection from an ex-boyfriend.”

“Shut up.” El had his gun pressed against Sands’ temple, barrel hard and uncomfortable, digging into his skin.

“Fuck you, El.” Sands straightened with visible effort. “At least I’m not the one with the fetish for mutilation victims.” He spat the last word out as if it were poison. “And I may be compromised but even like this I’m a damn sight more capable than she ever was. So listen up bean-fucker. Don’t you compare me to some two bit, cock-sucking-”

He never got to finish his tirade. El pistol whipped him, knocking his head back against the wall, making flowers of pain explode in his skull, a pseudo-sight of blood red fireworks. Sands slid to the ground again, stunned and disorientated on his knees. He tried to grin up at El, defiance and his love of the way the abuse let him see again but his cut lip stretched and stung and the blood in his mouth leaked out the side, running down to his chin. El’s hand cupped his jaw, rough and warm and tilted his face upwards, straining his neck. It felt like his nose was bleeding too but he couldn’t tell.

“At least she loved me.” El’s voice was too calm, laced with poison and anger. “You’re on your knees, and for what?” Those fingers dug into the hinge of Sands’ jaw, forcing his mouth open and he could hear the silver-shiver sound of a zipper being undone. Then smooth-skinned, hard heat slid past his lips. “Bite down and I’ll break your jaw,” was all El said before he took two handfuls of Sands’ hair, pulling a little too hard to feel good.

Sands half gagged on the flesh in his mouth and the blood choking his throat, more of it spilling out the side of his mouth to color his skin in vibrant lines. He sucked in air through his nose and brought his hands up to hold onto El’s hips, knuckles white against the black of El’s trousers. Even as he tried not to choke, through the haze of the alcohol, and the dizziness from the blow to the head, he wondered at the situation.

He did not like pain. He was not a masochist by any stretch of the imagination. Sheldon Jeffery Sands killed people who hurt him. He was hurting now, his face stinging and swelling, his knees aching against the hard ground, his stomach sore, and he was having trouble breathing around the blood filling up through his mouth into his nose. And there, on his knees, lips wrapped around El’s erection, bruised and bloodied, he found that he was harder than he had been in quite some time. Even as he was dragged to his feet by his hair and slammed back against the wall, as rough hands dragged his jeans down, one leg lifted uncomfortably high, bare thigh rasping against dusty, scratchy cloth, he was squirming to try and gain some friction.

Sands killed people who hurt him. He didn’t grab them by the hair and drag them in for a hard, lust-fuelled kiss filled with tongues, and blood, and heat.

El’s hands were gripping his upper arms, he’d have fingerprints there later. “You like this,” there was confusion in his voice.

“Shut up and fuck me,” Sands demanded. “I know why I let you do this and it’s none of your goddamned business.”

El stopped. Drew back. “You are not well.” He sounded extremely apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

Sands started to laugh. “That’s never been an issue before in my life. Christ on a pogo-stick. Do you have to analyze everything or is a nice, simple fuck too complex for your bean-fried brain?”

“This is not simple.”

Sands heaved an exasperated sigh and spat blood onto the pavement. “We screw like rampant bunnies when I’m bored, when I’m annoying you, when you’re brooding, when you’re in a good mood, when I’m in a bad mood, when we’re both drunk, or sober, or it’s night, or day, or somewhere in the middle, when the day of the week ends in ‘y’. Christ, if I had a dime for every time you’ve nailed me to the nearest surface…I’d have a shit-load of dimes. Why then, is it so very hard for you to do for me this one simple thing and finish what you goddamn started?”

El shook his head and pushed a few strands of Sands’ hair out of his face. “Gatito…”

“Don’t call me that,” Sands snapped.

“Gatito, I was angry.”

Sands growled under his breath. “And I’m drunk off my ass and don’t know shit about your wife. I’m blind and pissed off and skunk drunk, I said that, and I want you to do what I provoked you into and fuck me till I can’t walk straight.”

El leaned forward and Sands’ lips parted, demanding a kiss. When it didn’t come, when all El did was put his hands on either side of Sands’ head, faces so close their noses nearly touched, Sands didn’t do anything, just tilted his head a little, waiting. El ducked his head slightly to one side and licked the blood off Sands’ chin and mouth. Sands shuddered, hands fisting at his sides. One of El’s hands slipped between them, lifting Sands’ leg again as he finally kissed him. Hard and angry, tender and worried, all at the same time. It was too much like complications for Sands, too much trying to read something into what should have been simple. 

He wrapped his arms around El’s shoulders and took his other foot off the ground, legs around El’s waist. As El quickly tried to readjust to carrying all of Sands’ weight, Sands lifted himself up a little more and then slid down onto El’s cock. His lips twisted into a snarl and he bit down on El’s shoulder to muffle the soft moan of pain. El groaned low in his chest and pressed Sands hard up against the wall, grinding his shoulders against the stucco walls. Sands relaxed into the brutal rhythm, twining his fingers into El’s hair, head tipped back, mouth open, gasping for air. 

Sands wondered if this wasn’t the best sex he’d ever had, El, hard and violent and he wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week goddamnit. It hurt, in the same way that it had hurt when El had struck him. Like he should care that it was making him bleed, that he should be fighting and protesting. He shouldn’t be writhing and moaning like a cheap whore, shouldn’t want moreharderfasterjesusfuckelgodharder and he certainly shouldn’t come like that, when he was scraping his shoulders raw on stucco, gasp-whimpering with each thrust. But when El did that to him, those wonderful colors of pain and pleasure fireblossomed in his head and El became that velvet shadow. 

Oh he would pay for the sight and the pleasure in sweat, and pain, and blood but it seemed like a fair tradeoff and as he slumped against El he smiled to himself and let the dizziness and burn wash over him. Maybe he wasn’t a masochist, by any stretch of the imagination, maybe he was an El-ist. He giggled as El shuddered into him and then Sands tipped his head back and laughed and laughed.

El had to carry him the last little bit back to their rooms, Sands sleepy and sedated, blood on his face and thighs and a cigarette hanging from his lips.

“You are not well,” El said again when they were back in the kitchen, Sands having managed to filch a beer out of the fridge to top up his buzz. “We need to talk about this.”

Sands slurped on his beer. “What’s your problem, El? I like it rough, you like to give it rough.”

“Not like that,” El murmured and he sounded ashamed. “Never before like that.”

Sands just shrugged. What was he supposed to say to that?

El left the room then and Sands heard the front door slam. He pushed himself to his feet and, swaying from the drink and limping from the sex, he made his way to the bathroom to have a long, long shower.

*~*~*~*

Balrow stood at the side of the road peering into the hood of the car. The engine was smoking. So was Robson.

“Put that out, dumbass,” Balrow snarled. “I’ve got an open engine here.”

Robson smiled and blew smoke into the air. “Does it look like the fuel line is bust? Do you see any fuel? Do you smell any gas? No. So quit bitching and just let the damn thing cool down. Fucking Mexico. It’s too goddamned hot for the Vampire.”

“The what?”

“The Vampire.” Robson ground out his cigarette under his shoe. “The car. It dies if it comes into direct contact with sunlight and we’ve been driving the damn thing in this goddamn heat for hours. I’m surprised it didn’t just blow up with both of us in it. Fucking pile of crap.”

Balrow sighed. “Jesus. How far are we from the nearest town anyway?”

Robson already had the map out. “Too far.”

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Balrow sat by the side of the road and put his head in his hands. “I fucking hate this goddamned country and I fucking hate Sands for being such a stupid fucking bastard for getting himself into this mess.”

Robson stuck out his thumb and waited for a passing car to stop.

*~*~*~*

It was dark that night, or at least Sands supposed it was. It was always dark in his head now. 

“What color is the wall paper?” The words spilled out of his mouth once more and he hated himself for asking. Hated himself for the slow tremor in his hands that wouldn’t go away, no matter how he clenched his fists.

El peered down at the man lying on his chest and raised one tired eyebrow. “What is your fascination with the wallpaper, hey?”

Sands tucked his face into the crook of El’s neck and shook his head. “Never mind, it’s not important.” His voice belied his words. “Get your beauty sleep, god knows you need it.”

For a moment El just watched him. The dangerous downturn to his lips, the slight furrowing of his brow and the way that his hands were trembling a little. Sands looked tired but El had found out how to erase those telltale signs of distress. He was tired too, but it was nothing a lie-in couldn’t change.

El rolled them over in the narrow bed so Sands was trapped under him. There was a curve of surprise to his lips now as he stuck out a hand, fumbling for the bedside table and his sunglasses. El captured the errant hand and pressed it into the bed beside Sands’ head.

“Leave them off.”

Sands scowled. “Sometimes I don’t know who’s more screwed up. You, for wanting to fuck me like this, or me, for wanting you to fuck me like this.”

He lay passive, not fighting, not provoking, just letting the sensations wash over him. 

This time it wasn’t enough.

*~*~*~*

Podunk nowhersville.

Robson slumped down at the table with a grateful smile to the overweight waitress glaring at them over her set of menus. “Jesus Balrow, you think that we could have gotten an earlier start?” he griped sarcastically. 

The clock said it was two am and no matter how Robson stared at it, the numbers refused to make any sort of drastic change.

Balrow scowled at him, the early hour obviously not making him very happy either. “It’s not my fault we have a car that breaks down in the sun. It is not my fault that your car starting negotiation skills are sadly lacking and it is most certainly not my fault that there is no coffee here. So shut the hell up. Ok?”

“Fuck you.” Robson lit a cigarette, ignoring the no smoking sign above his head. No one in the nice American-style restaurant was awake enough to care, or to rebuke him for it. “We need to find a hotel and sleep. I don’t play nice when I’m this fucking tired.”

Balrow shook his head. “No…no there’s somewhere we need to be.” Agents learned to trust their instinct and Balrow was getting a Feeling in his gut. The kind of feeling that warranted a capital F. That or he was just so tired that his stomach was churning. “I’ve got one of my hunches.”

Robson groaned and put his head down on the tabletop. “Fuck you,” he said again. “Gimme a couple of hours to sleep.”

*~*~*~*

Sands woke up and the air on his face was still marginally cooler than before so he assumed that it was some ungodly hour of the morning. That and he felt groggy, as though he had only slept for a few moments. It was stifling hot in the rest of the bed, where the sheets touched him, where El’s arm flopped across his stomach and where their legs tangled together. All of a sudden he felt claustrophobic. 

Sands shoved at El’s arm until the man mumbled in his sleep and moved it away. Then he climbed out of bed and stood, naked and tired, pushing his hair out of his face.

“Christ on a tricycle,” he muttered and tapped his foot out in front of him. His foot came into contact with something that felt like clothing, so he stooped down to pick it up. He made his way around the room, pulling on his clothing where he found it. Never mind that he was sweaty and needed a shower. Never mind that he was tried and sore as all hell. 

He went to the kitchen and poured himself a tequila. It struck him that he didn’t want to be in the motel any more. The routine was driving him crazy, all the little things were starting to grate. The way Fideo didn’t shower enough. The way that Lorenzo and he fought. And El. El’s complications, El’s martyr complex, El’s restrictions.

Sands put his head in his hands and pulled on his hair. He didn’t want to be there any more. 

It wasn’t enough.

He took the canvas bag he used to carry his things from motel to motel in and stuffed it full of clothing, the money left over from the coup, his guns, some of El’s guns and as many bullets as he could find. 

Then he left.

*~*~*~* 

It was around six-thirty when El woke up. He felt contentedly sleepy, warm and a little tired still from the physical exertions of the night before. El smiled, slow and lazy, eyes still shut against the morning light and reached for Sands.

Normally at this time Sands was still sleeping, mouth slightly open, face soft and slack, no lines of anger or sarcasm. His hair, getting long now, was usually a little sweat damp and curling close to his skull. El could watch him for a while, coax him out of sleep with kisses and soft touches. Once he’d managed to wake Sands once he’d slid inside of him, Sands already hard in his sleep, waking with a half coherent moan. El wondered if that didn’t sound like a wonderful way to start a Thursday morning.

Sands wasn’t in the bed.

El sat up abruptly, sleep washed away in a rush of surprise and adrenaline. He rolled out of bed and cast a quick glance about the room. None of Sands’ clothing was strewn about as they had left it last night. His cane and sunglasses were gone too.

The odds of Sands bothering to wake up and get dressed at- as he liked to call it- stupid o’clock were so slim as not to exist. El told himself it was nothing even as he hauled his trousers on, cursing under his breath. He headed for the roof, Sands’ current favorite place to smoke. He didn’t run, he didn’t panic, he didn’t have visions of Carolina bloodied and dead on the ground. Not at all. Really.

The sky was blood red and there was a harsh wind blowing up the grit and dust from the road in tight spirals. Other than a few cigarette butts there was nothing. No Sands.

He took the stairs two at a time skidding around the corner into the kitchen, praying that Sands would look up and laugh at his haste. It seemed as if once again God wasn’t listening to this killer. El’s heart hammered in his chest even as he drummed his fingers on the counter, the rhythm helping him keep calm as he could. Then it seemed to beat out, too late, too late, gone, gone, gone and he stopped, snatching his fingers away from the surface.

From Lorenzo’s room he could hear faint sounds of copulation taking place and even as the thought sent a spike a jealousy through him, he sent up a final prayer that it was Sands in there, and not missing. Logically he knew it couldn’t be. Lorenzo was straight and Sands…well, Sands just wouldn’t. Nevertheless, logical or not, El burst into the room feeling as if his heart was trying to crawl out of his throat.

Lorenzo looked up, startled, the young woman under him screeching her displeasure and scrabbling for the blankets to cover her naked breasts.

“Sorry,” El said, not sounding sorry at all. //Get dressed, Sands is gone.// He threw Lorenzo’s trousers at him.

*~*~*~* 

Robson stood at the bar, smoking.

A drunk snored at the table next to them.

Balrow was in the bathroom.

A man stormed into the bar, he was dressed like a mariachi and his dark hair hung in his eyes a little. Tall, for a Mexican, looking angry and a little scared. He shook the drunk.

Robson looked outside where a red Toyota was running, a young man sprawled in the passenger seat, yawning and fidgeting. 

“Get up Fideo. We have to go. Now.” The mariachi dragged the drunk to his feet. “Sands is gone.”  
And then the two men were out the door before Robson’s sleep-deprived brain could really grasp what he had just heard. 

“Fuck.” Robson ground his cigarette out, trying not to wince at the thought of how much Balrow was going to gloat when he found out his hunch had been right and it wasn’t just indigestion.

*~*~*~*

It was too hot out on the road with no shade to hide him from the midday sun. There was dust in Sands’ mouth, in his clothing, it felt like there was dust crawling though his skin to smother his soul as well as his body.

Only mad dogs and Englishmen, Sands thought bitterly to himself. And since he wasn’t English, what did that make him? The little nagging voice in the back of his head told him the answer was clear; A dog. And not just any kind of dog, El’s bitch.

That little voice pissed him off. It sounded like Lorenzo. It made him want to kill something just to make himself feel better. Though, for the moment, he would have settled for some shade. Maybe a drink of water or a long, cold shower.

Somewhere behind him he heard the soft rumble of a car engine and stuck his thumb out. The car slowed and stopped. Sands hefted his bag higher on his shoulder and took a few careful steps forward until he could feel the heat radiating off the paint of the car. He fumbled for the handle and slid into the passenger seat.

“Fucking sun,” he said by way of introduction. “If I’ve got heatstroke I’m gonna be pissed.” Sands slid the bag between his feet and stuck one hand in his pocket, reassuring himself of the sense of his plan with the cold steel of his gun. “Habla Ingles?”

The stranger whose car he sat in set the vehicle in motion again. “Yeah, I’m American.”

Sands grinned. “No fucking kidding, eh? Me too.”

*~*~*~*

Robson leaned on the hood of the car while Balrow filled up the tank at a cheap gas station. He was smoking, despite all the dangers of having an open flame near gas.

“So explain to me again why we don’t just take these fuckers down now.” He blew smoke out of his nose, enjoying the look of nervousness Balrow shot him. “Christ, it’s not like it’ll be hard. Three guitar players, one a punk kid, one a drunk …we could have them in custody in a flat second.”

“Because we need them to take us to Sands.”

Robson rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Sure. Or we could just make them tell us where he is.”

Balrow glared at him and put the hose back on the pump. “Do the words, ‘Sands is gone,’ mean nothing to you? They have a higher chance of knowing where he is if they actually go looking. How the fuck are they supposed to tell us where he is if they don’t know?’

“Oh.” Robson stubbed out his cigarette. “Yeah. Good point.”

*~*~*~*

Lorenzo fiddled with the stereo, flicking though station after station with the dedication of a channel surfer. //You know that there are two men following us, right?// He glanced into the rearview mirror, the hand not flicking with the stereo caressing the gun sitting on his lap.

El remained impassive. //Of course.//

//Well, shouldn’t we be worried about that?//

This time El checked the rearview. //No.//

Suddenly Lorenzo could see why Sands enjoyed provoking El. At least then you got some sort of reaction out of him other than monosyllables. //Mother Mary of God,// he snapped. //Does the fact that we’re being tailed mean nothing to you, or has your obsession with that psychotic whore clouded your judgment?//

El slammed on the brakes and Lorenzo was very glad that he was a seatbelt wearing kind of guy.

//Don’t call him that.// El sounded dangerous. The kind of dangerous he sounded when someone mentioned Carolina the wrong way. //He is blind, he is alone, he is dangerous. We took him in, we look after our own.// He started the car up again and continued down the road. //They are CIA behind us,// El said finally. //They want Sands, they will leave us be until we find him.//

Lorenzo sighed and slid down in his seat. //Then what?//

El smiled a little, and it was the sad, sweet smile that death might have. 

//Jesus, El, it’s just Sands.//

El shook his head. //And he is just a man, no matter how he might wish you to believe otherwise.//

//And you see him for what he is?// Fideo piped up for the first time and the expression on El’s face showed he wished Fideo had kept his peace.

//Perhaps,// El murmured, and that was the end of that.

*~*~*~*

His name was Red. Or at least that’s what all his friends called him. A dry chuckle attached to that statement and Sands assumed that the man must have terribly bright hair. The thought pained him for some reason. That he wouldn’t be able to stare at the terrible disaster that Red’s hair must be. He could no longer gloat happily that he had been blessed with not only razor sharp wit, but dashingly good looks as well. Now the razor wit seemed to have been reduced to vitriolic snarking and as for his good looks. Well…

His hand came up self-consciously to make sure his sunglasses were in place, El’s voice reverberating through his head.

//My beautiful kitten.//

“Fuck off. I’m not beautiful, don’t call me kitten, and I’m sure as hell not yours.”

That smile. The one he could feel. The one pressed against his skin, lips curved up. //I see what I see.//

Sands wished he could see what El saw. He wished he could just fucking well see.

“Say, buddy, what’s your name anyway?”

His fingers twitched around the gun. “Jeff.”

“Tell me your name,” Sands demanded. 

El threaded his fingers through Sands’ hair, half a caress, half to pull his head back for a kiss. Sands obliged but wouldn’t be distracted that easily. “Your name, fuckmook.”

El shook his head. “Tell me yours.”

“Sheldon Jeffery Sands.” It wasn’t a secret and any man, with half a mind to find out, could. There was no point in not telling El. “But if you call me that I’ll break your nose. What’s your name?”

“El Mariachi.”

“Fuck you.”

“If you wish.” And then El was pushing Sands back onto the worn sofa that smelt of cheap beer and cheaper sex. Sands’ mouth twisted into a sneer and a half-formed protest that was swallowed by El’s lips. 

Afterwards, Sands was too tired and too well fucked to ask again. A small part of him wondered why he was good enough for the mariachi to take to bed, but not enough that he would share his name. The sensation was quashed a few moments later when El had recovered sufficiently to once more pound him into the mattress.

“So what brings you out to these here parts? Me, I’m comin’ back from a month of sight-seein’. Born and raised in Texas and as fun as Mexico is, I’m about ready to head home.”

Sands shrugged. “You know how it is. Learn a foreign language, join the CIA, see the world, get your eyes gouged out by a cartel and start screwing a homicidal guitarist. I got bored and figured I’d hitchhike the hell out of being co-dependant and head off to freedom.” 

Red sniggered. “No, really.”

He didn’t know what possessed him. He didn’t know why he felt so tried and so angry, but Sands turned to face Red and tilted his sunglasses down. “No,” Sands said, softly. “Really.”

He shot forward in his seat when Red slammed on the brakes and damn near went through the front window. 

“Jesus,” Red breathed. 

Sands rearranged himself back in his seat, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose. “So are you going to drive, or what?” The derringer in his pocket felt like a brand burning a hole through his jeans and Sands suddenly felt very cold and very much alone.

They drove on in tense silence. Red obviously in too much shock to say much of anything and Sands didn’t feel like talking. This was as much a surprise to him as his desperation to show someone what he was, what he had become. Someone, anyone, anyone who wasn’t El. Maybe he was just punishing himself. The endearments, the soft touches, the way El would watch him when he thought he was asleep. El didn’t care what he was. Or if he cared, he wasn’t bothered overmuch by it. No eyes, no soul. Sands wrapped his arm around himself, the other hand still clutching the gun like a security blanket. He’d wanted someone to gasp and feel fear and loathing. Now that he’d got what he wanted, he wasn’t sure why he’d gone after it in the first place when it had hurt so much.

He wasn’t a vain man. He just wanted his fucking eyes back.

*~*~*~*

Robson yawned. “How can they not have seen us? You drive like an old woman on crack.”

Balrow glared at him. “They’ve seen us.” 

“So why the hell are we tailing them like two old ladies on crack? What the hell happened to all the training…did you suddenly think we’re in some shitty old cop show where the bad guys notice fuck all and two guys with big hair can follow someone in a bright red car and not get noticed?”

This time Balrow just looked confused. “The car is black.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. It was an old show called…oh nevermind.” He lit up without rolling down the window. “So please, explain to me what the hell we’re doing.”

“They’re letting us follow them. So we will, until they lead us to Sands.”

Robson raised an eyebrow. “And then what?”

Balrow smiled and it was all teeth and no mirth. “He’s one of us and we look after our own.”

Robson felt unaccountably sorry for the unsuspecting guitarists.

*~*~*~*

“How far are we from the nearest big city?”

It was the first thing either of them had said since Sands had showed Red his face. He could hear Red jump a little at the sound.

“About a mile.” Red’s voice was nerve wracked and cracked a little.

Sands fidgeted with the derringer for a while, before clicking the safety off and pressing the barrel of the gun against Red’s temple. “Pull over.”

The car skidded to the side of the road and the silence reigned again. This time it was Red’s panicked panting filling the air instead of the rumble of the car and its air-conditioning. They sat like that for several long moments.

“You know, you seem like a nice guy,” Sands said finally. “I’m sure I’d like you under different circumstances. Probably ones that didn’t involve me being eyeless and a sociopath, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers, right?” 

The sound of the gun going off was loud enough that there was a vague ringing in Sands’ ears for moments afterwards. It wasn’t enough to drown out the thick meaty sound of Red’s skull and brain mass being spattered all over the window. Sands sighed heavily and wiped his prints off the gun with a cloth before putting the gun into Red’s limp hand.

“I’d apologize, but I’m not feeling all that contrite.” Sands opened the passenger side door and eased out. “Fucking Mexican sun.”

He hefted his bag onto one shoulder and made his slow way down the road, using the distant sounds of the city to guide him.

*~*~*~*

“We don’t even know where to start looking.” Lorenzo had put his gun away, satisfied that nothing was going to happen that would require him to use it.

El glanced in the rearview mirror briefly. //Follow the road signs.//

Lorenzo groaned in disbelief. //To where.//

El pointed. //He can’t drive, so it’s either bus or hitchhike. Which will take him to the nearest big city.// He sighed and slowed down to peer out the window at a dusty car, the inside driver’s window spattered with blood. //And then we just follow the body trail.//

*~*~*~*

“Motherfuck.” Balrow slowed, as the guitarist had done. “Should we stop?”

Robson shook his head. He was the one with the nose for murder, the one with the intuition. Balrow got his hunches and Robson followed them up. Teamwork. “Nah. Probably just rubbernecking. ‘Sides, it’s not our business. The local police will pick it up soon enough, none of our damn business, thank god.”

*~*~*~*

El stared at the city in dismay. It was big. Somewhere out there was Sands and he had to find him. He wondered vaguely if it would be appropriate to ask God for help and decided, equally as vaguely that it wasn’t really something he could do. He hefted his guitar case, forcing himself to unclench his fist before the old gunshot wound made it start to spasm. 

Something in his gut refused to unclench though. 

He wasn’t even seeing visions of Carolina dead any more. The images had been replaced by Sands.

Sands…in a back alley, shot, bleeding, dead. Wandering into traffic, the impact, the crunch of bone. Mugged, beaten, raped. Lost, scared, still unable to roll his own cigarettes. Not knowing who he could trust…

He knew Sands was a capable man. He had CIA training, he had a bag full of guns and money. But for all that, he still had no eyes. 

“Lorenzo, check the bars. Fideo, check the streets, I’ll check the motels and no you two cannot switch.”

There was dissent in the ranks but they left, hopefully to do as they were told.

El swallowed his fears and focused on what he was going to say when he found Sands.

When. Not if. He’d lost too much for it to be another ‘if’.

*~*~*~*

Sands locked the door to the cheap-ass motel he had found, and god if that hadn’t been a mission and a half.

Too paranoid to trust someone to guide him, too lost to find it of his own volition…

He had resorted to playing the dumb tourist, getting really shitty, spanglish directions and stumbling along until he had to ask someone else to clarify. It was like one long game of hot and cold that had left him frustrated, angry and, most embarrassingly, scared as all hell that he really had fucked himself over this time.

The ‘thunk’ of the lock did nothing to soothe his jangling nerves. Jingle jangle, like El’s steps inside his skin. He leaned his back against the solid weight of the door and let his cane fall to the floor. It bounced and rolled but Sands couldn’t bring himself to care, though it meant he’d be on his hands and knees later, looking for it. He put a hand to his face and realized he was shaking, fingers vibrating on his forehead. Sands let his knees buckle, sliding down to the floor. 

“Christ,” he breathed, though he’d never been a religious man. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this on my own. Fuck.”

To his shame and irritation Sands realized he wanted nothing more at that moment than to curl up around El with a cigarette and have his hair stroked. The irritation was enough to force him to his feet, week-kneed or not, and send him shuffling carefully across the room.

He tripped on the recently abandoned cane and fell heavily onto his hands and knees. Just as he’d predicted. 

Sands screamed in frustration and rage and slammed his palms against the floor.

*~*~*~*

“They’ve split up.”

Balrow grit his teeth as he tried to find parking anywhere near where the guitar player had left their Toyota. “Yes, thank you, I can see that for myself.”

Robson rolled his eyes and tapped on the door. “So let me out and we’ll split up. You take the punk kid and I’ll take the angry one. Leave the drunk, he’ll just go sit in a bar.”

“We stick together.” Balrow finally just double parked and to hell with the laws of Mexico, they were American CIA and could do what they damn well wanted. “Keep with the, as you put it, ‘angry one’ because he’s the one all the reports associate with Sands. Trust me.”

“You have a hunch?” Balrow shook his head and got out of the car. The car was too close to the one next to it, so Robson was forced to clamber across the seats to get out, he lit up as soon as his feet hit the pavement. 

“Something like that.”

Robson sighed, blowing smoke out of his nose, and trailed after Balrow. “You know, you’re more fucking crazy than Sands ever was.”

“Don’t say that.”

*~*~*~*

Sands didn’t like sleeping. The basic idea of lying horizontal, shutting one’s eyes and letting your mind shut down for a while to process the information of the day didn’t seem so bad. It was his problem with putting it into practice that made him adverse to the entire idea. Firstly, he had no eyes to shut, so that pissed him off on principal. Secondly, unless he had someone to guard his back while he slept, he didn’t like lying down all tangled in sheets. Thirdly, when he slept, he dreamed, and that was worst of all. Sometimes it was nightmares but not always and that wasn’t what bothered him.

When he dreamed, he could see again. The pictures in his head clear as his vision had ever been, and it would be nothing but blackness again. Every time he woke, it was like being blinded all over again.

For a while he fought to stay awake, but as much as Sands loathed waking up in the mornings, he also was a practical man and he knew full well the implications of not sleeping. That was why he always provoked El into a good hard fucking before bedtime. If he was tired enough he wouldn’t dream. Alright, that wasn’t the only reason, but certainly a presiding factor. 

El wasn’t here now, Sands reminded himself, scowling at his own dependency before rolling over, curled up against the chill he could feel in his bones.

The sunlight against the back of his eyelids was warming him though, he felt as if he was lying in a puddle of sunshine.

“Gatito, don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” Sands snapped, since he wasn’t and who was this fucktard disturbing his siesta? Then he looked up and saw El, standing with a wry smile on his face, guitar case in one hand. He was a little dusty and a little rumpled and his hair, if it was brushed out at one point, was now as dusty and rumpled as his clothing. Brown eyes sparked amusement and his smile was surprisingly white and straight. Then Sands was laughing and he was crying, sobbing really, because he could see. He could see damnit and El was there and-

Somewhere outside a car backfired, sounding too much like a gunshot for comfort. Sands jolted out of sleep, panting for breath, hands fisted into the sheets, straining to see with eyes that really, after all, weren’t there and never would be again. 

In his mind’s eye he could still picture El, still see the sunlight through the window and the dust dancing in the stream of light. He could see the dirt and grime of the room. But only in his mind’s eye. 

Sands pulled the gun out from under his pillow and ran his fingers over the metal. He didn’t actually want to die. Death held no charms for him, no distant promise. He didn’t really know what awaited him, be it heaven, or hell, or nothing at all and he didn’t give a good goddamn either. Nevertheless, he clicked the safety off and cocked the gun, even though it was an automatic and you really didn’t have to do that unless, like him, you wanted to hear the sound of the bullet sliding into the chamber.

It seemed vaguely stupid and pointless to blow yet another set of holes in his body. Christ, this gun would leave one motherfuck of an exit wound, even at close range. He knew what he cleaned his gun with and where the gun had been and no way in hell was he putting that in his mouth. Instead, Sands slipped his sunglasses off, biting at his lip in uncertainty, and slid the muzzle of the gun into one of his eye-sockets. He sat for a moment like that, just considering his options. 

He thought of poor Red with his brains spattered all over the window and wondered what poor fucker would stumble upon him first. He wondered if Red’s family would ever find out what had happened to their son. For a while he conjured up images of what he himself would look like, sprawled over a cheap motel bed, stolen wallet in his pocket and a bag full of guns and money and t-shirts with obnoxious slogans. Blood staining dirty sheets and two holes where his eyes should be. It all seemed vaguely pathetic, a little horror movie, a little teen angst but mostly just sad in the way that that would be the way to go. After everything else, what an inglorious way to end it all.

Sands put the gun down with a sigh and flopped onto his back.

Christ, he couldn’t even stare vacantly at the ceiling whilst he pondered what the hell to do with himself.


End file.
